


Stuffed

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [68]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Little Bit Of Crack, Anal Play, Blow Jobs, I suppose, M/M, Oh and uh, ah well, and it just came out as weird, and then just a lot of porn, dub con, first porn in quite a while, possibly i tried too hard to be tricksy, sorry if it's a bit rusty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-17 23:57:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5890138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is greedy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stuffed

**Author's Note:**

> this is for the one word bottomjohn prompt blog because i felt the need to flex my porn writing muscles. not up on the blog yet but should be up there sometime tomorrow...

He is stuffed. If he had seams they would be splitting, the stitches straining and creaking against his flesh. He has never been so full, so stretched. It's hard to breathe because everything inside him is compressed and he swears he can feel the push of something foreign when he lays a hand on his own belly, struggling to escape the confines of too small a space. 

“Jesus,” John swears, a gasping murmur because he doesn't have the will for anything else. “Jesus bloody Christ.”

From across the room, Sherlock's dispassionate gaze finds him and pins him in his chair even more firmly than his own inability to move. 

“You're complaining,” he says and it's a low distracted growl. 

“I hate you,” John gasps and Sherlock's eyes narrow at him, two bright slits of irritation but he doesn't say anything. Turns his back to John and stares out the window.

It's dark outside, the fog curling up to make halos around the streetlamp and muffling the brightness that spills into the room.

John shifts in his chair and moans out loud at the tightening of every muscle, contracting and dilating around the unholy intrusion. “Oh _god,”_ he gasps, and can't help the moan that spills out of him.

Sherlock snorts. Actually snorts.

“You sound obscene,” he says.

“Shut up,” John snaps and closes his eyes, wishing it would all just go away.

“I told you. You didn't listen.”

“Sherlock. Not helpful.”

A low chuckle, dark and predatory and the familiarity of that sound has John's eyes snapping open. Sherlock's looking at him again, barely more than a silhouette, but John doesn't need to see his face clearly to know what's on it.

“Sherlock…” he warns and he tries to sit up but he's too full, can't move. “Sherlock, _no._ I feel disgusting.”

“Your own fault,” Sherlock says in that same bloody voice, like chocolate and gravel and something dangerous lurking in the dark. “I told you not to eat the second entree. You didn't listen to me. And now I have to listen to you whining all night because you have no self-control.”

He is coming closer. _Stalking._ The word pops up into John's head with flashing red lights attached and John giggles somewhat hysterically as he tries to force his body out of the bloody chair but _oh god_ he's so full, far too much food because Sherlock just had to go and find those bloody photos for the woman and she just had to be so bloody grateful and John _couldn't_ refuse when she'd looked so abjectly thankful that there was _something_ she could do for them at least because Sherlock, bloody idiot that he is, just wouldn't _hear_ of taking her money, bloody stupid hero complex that he refused to admit he had. _I'm never impartial, John._ Yeah bloody right. He may not be attracted to them, but Sherlock Holmes had as much of a weakness for a damsel in distress as any other man John had ever met.

“Listen,” John says a little desperately, scrambling at the arm rest and trying to hoist himself upright. “Tomorrow, alright? First thing in the morning,” but he's too slow, far too slow, and Sherlock is on him and John is giggling again, that hysterical sound he hates but that Sherlock loves to drag out of him whenever he can. “Sherlock, _shit!”_ because there's a face pressed into his belly now, hot, wet air breathed out onto the distended flesh and he hates how good it feels even now. This is not normal. _He_ is not normal.

“Jesus, Sherlock, I can't. I'm disgusting.” 

“You're gorgeous,” Sherlock says, and it's a murmur against his skin, Sherlock's long fingers sliding his shirt up, large hand spreadeagled out across John's stomach like a blessing being conferred. “You're beautiful when you can't move,” and there are teeth in the leather of John's belt, tugging it free, a tongue dipping below his too tight waistline while quiet fingers slip over buttons and zipper. “I love you like this,” Sherlock says, and John isn't aware that he's staring at him until there's a flash of blue eyes, a white brilliance of grinning teeth. _“Helpless.”_

“Oh God,” John moans and this time it is obscene, has nothing to do with his stomach. He is heaving, barely able to breathe and he throws his head back when Sherlock pulls at the waist of his trousers and pants, dragging them down. He feels obscene, something utterly filthy and decadent, his bottom half exposed and distended. “Sherlock,” he gasps.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, and the syllable of his name is a hot breath against his cock and in spite of himself John's hips flex upwards, seeking that heat.

“Patience, greedy one,” Sherlock chuckles and John feels his legs being lifted, two shoulders being thrust below his thighs. He groans and forces himself to look, to observe himself like this, something laid out and debased, his body crude and profane, his pale thighs framing the dark head between them.

“Sherlock, please,” he says and the word slips out against his own volition. His brain is sluggish and unresponsive, his body taking what it wants. And _oh god_ it wants. “Sherlock…”

“What do you want, John?” Sherlock asks, and the question is a breath on the tip of his straining cock, lewd and bobbing against his rounded belly.

“You. Please. Sherlock, please.”

“You've been very annoying tonight, John. I'm not sure if you deserve it.”

 _“Please!”_ and he gasps because even as the word pushes out there is that pressure, sudden and pointed, a single long finger settled on the space behind his balls and all the world suddenly coalesces and there is nothing but that one spot. He _twitches,_ his entire body convulsing _down_ and he can feel it spear him, cool and dry and _sharp_ and he cries out, this single intrusion more significant than anything else he's ever felt.

“Look at you,” Sherlock says, and John can barely hear him over the sound of his own moans. “Look at how helpless you are. I don't even have to fuck you to make you come, do I? I just have to sit here with the tip of my finger inside your dry little hole and wait until you break yourself on it. Are you that desperate, John? Don't I fuck you enough?”

_“Sherlock!”_

And Sherlock laughs, a low dark sound, and without warning that mouth descends, a sudden blasting heat and he doesn't even have to _try_ before John is screaming, his hips jerking upwards and he's coming so hard it hurts and his whole body clenches inwards on the feeling of _too full, too much, too big,_ so that when it stops, when he is gasping and limp and Sherlock is staring at him with that grin on his face like he's just had news of a nine and a beheading and a locked room murder all rolled into one, John can feel the beginnings of fear slither up his uncooperative spine. 

“Beautiful,” Sherlock says. “And don't worry, John. you won't have to move at all for this next bit.”


End file.
